“You sentenced me to fifteen lashes. Not to be stripped by one of your trackers. Turn your backs. I’ll remove it myself.”
Rowan raises a brow and gives me a look that almost feels approving and says, “As you wish. If you try to escape or to hurt one of us while our backs are turned, Ian and Samuel have my permission to whip you until you are dead. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly.”
I wait until they turn their backs and then let my ruined tunic fall to the ground while I wrestle with the armor. My fingers are still clumsy from lack of circulation. It’s hard to grip the thin metal, but I force myself to grab hold of the bottom hem and then lift while I twist my body like a snake shedding its skin. The armor peels away from me, leaving only the silky undertunic that Logan found for me in the hospital at Lankenshire. The fabric whispers against my skin as I pull it over my head as well. I can’t feel the satiny smoothness of the undertunic without remembering the way Logan’s breath caught in his chest or the way my heart thundered in my ears as he stood so close behind me. I wonder if I’ll still have the power to make Logan forget how to breathe once he sees the scars Samuel is about to give me.
I snatch my outer tunic even as I let the undertunic and the armor fall. The air that seconds ago felt too warm now sends chills over my exposed skin. I feel vulnerable—cracked wide open in front of my enemies—and I have to blink rapidly to stem the sudden tears that sting my eyes as I pull my tunic over my chest and face the post again.
“Secure her wrists,” Rowan says, and Ian springs into action. In seconds, I’m once more trussed up, my cheek pressed against the scratchy wooden post while I stand on my tiptoes to ease the bite of the rope against my wrists. Once Ian steps back, Rowan says, “Rachel Adams, in accordance with the laws of Rowansmark, I declare you a thief and an insurgent who needs to learn how to respect authority. The penalty for your actions is fifteen lashes with the whip and a stay in my personal dungeon until Logan McEntire returns the controller and faces the consequences for his actions as well. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
What could I possibly say that would convince him that none of this would’ve happened if Marcus McEntire hadn’t been afraid to come to his leader for help when his newborn son was kidnapped by the Commander? That using Ian against his own father has poisoned him from the inside out? That no one man—not James Rowan, not the Commander—should have unlimited power over others, because too much power softens the goodness inside him until it turns to rot?
If I could go back to the moment when I first held the controller in my hands, I would change most of my choices. I would find a way to handle Melkin’s desperation without killing him. I wouldn’t insist that Logan and I try to use the device against the Commander, thereby giving Ian an opportunity to send the Cursed One into Baalboden. I would ask for advice. Listen carefully. And trust that I’m not the only one who knows what has to be done.
But I wouldn’t bring the controller back to Rowansmark. I wouldn’t give the man standing before me the exclusive use of tech that can turn the beasts into weapons. And I’m not going to lie and say that I would.
My voice is low and clear as I say, “I have nothing more to say to you.”
He manages to appear both crestfallen and self-satisfied. Looking beyond me, he says, “Begin her sentence.”
I stare at the line of pecan trees that rim the garden, focusing on the way the dying sun paints their twisted branches with splashes of orange and gold. Drawing in a deep breath of the damp air, I brace myself, but I can’t control the terrible sound I make when the whip slashes across my back, trailing a stream of blistering pain in its wake.
One.
The whip cracks again, a sharp snap of sound that almost drowns out my scream.
Two.
I barely get another breath in before the leather tip eats into my skin again.
Three.
Pain spreads across my back in hot, wet spikes.
Four.
My face grinds against the wooden post as I writhe against the restraints that hold me there.
Five.
I scream, and my throat feels like it’s bleeding. The pain is unrelenting. The whip falls, and another bright stream of agony sears me.
Six.
The whip leaves, and still the pain throbs, burrowing in, sinking toward my bones until I can’t tell where my wounds end and the rest of me begins.
Seven.
I choke on my scream and it becomes a sob. I can’t take this. I can’t. I dig my toes into the dirt and strain against the ropes, but there’s nowhere to go where the whip can’t find me.
Eight.
My body shudders. My teeth chatter, and a low moaning cry keeps trying to strangle me as I struggle for air. I want to beg for mercy. But there’s no mercy here. Not for me. Not for anyone.
Nine.
The pain shoots down my legs and my knees give out. I sag against the post, the rope cutting into my wrists, and stare at the pecan trees through a film of tears. Blood runs warm and wet down my back, over my legs, and drips onto the ground beneath me.
Ten.
I close my eyes and try desperately to ignore the way my back burns like it’s on fire. I can do this. I can. A sob tears through me as I dig my fingernails into the post above me and slowly get back to my feet.
I’m not going to break. Not like this.
Eleven.
I suck in another breath and hold it, pressing my lungs against my chest in a futile effort to stop the bite of the whip from wrenching a scream from my lips. My legs give out again, and I lean against the post, using it for leverage as I slowly push myself upright once more.
Twelve.
This time, I can’t push myself back up. I can’t seem to make my legs obey me. My fingernails dig in, but it’s no use. I dangle from the rope and lay my forehead against the post. Three more. That’s all I have to endure. Three more, and this will be over.
Thirteen.
“Ask for mercy.” Rowan squats in the dirt beside me and brushes my hair out of my eyes. “Show me you’ve learned your lesson, ask me for mercy, and it will be granted.”
My breath sobs in and out of my lungs, and I can’t seem to bring him into focus. I blink hard and try again. He kneels, his head outlined in a fiery nimbus from the setting sun, his dark eyes full of a concern that’s almost fatherly.
I laugh, but it comes out a choked cough instead, and pain shivers down my body as if every inch of me has been flayed.
Who is this man to offer mercy to me when he wouldn’t offer it to Marcus McEntire, who only wanted to rescue his son? When he wouldn’t give it to Ian, the boy with dreams, and instead turned Ian into a cold, cruel shell of himself?
“Rachel, you’ve had enough. Ask for mercy,” Rowan says.
I meet his eyes, lick my lips with a tongue as dry as sandpaper, and say, “You first.”
Scorn mingles with the false disappointment on his face, and he stares into my eyes as he says, “Finish it.”
Fourteen.
I bite back the scream and watch his face. Looking for weakness. For flaws. For the foothold I’ll need to figure out how to destroy him. Just the way Dad taught me. And I promise myself that I’ll survive this. I’ll get out of James Rowan’s dungeon, I’ll turn his city upside down hunting for the tech that threatens Logan, and then I’ll come back for the man who thought he could break others in his pursuit of power without any of them ever striking back.
Fifteen.
My body sags limply against the post, rope biting through my skin, and I moan as tears pour down my face. Samuel cuts me loose and carefully lifts me over his shoulder, my bleeding back open to the air, and then he carries me toward the dungeon, leaving Ian and Rowan behind in the garden.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
RACHEL
/> The dungeon is a long, narrow room on the bottom level of James Rowan’s mansion. A single window is set in the far wall, allowing the muted shadows of dusk to seep into the room and color it gray. Wooden slats that resemble the boards on sheep crates divide one side of the room into six cells. A thick length of iron chain coils around a hook beside each doorway, waiting to bolster the flimsy doors once someone is inside the cell. As far as dungeons go, it isn’t very secure. A healthy person at full strength could probably kick her way through one of the walls in a matter of minutes.
But healthy people aren’t imprisoned here. Why would they be? Rowansmark law states that anyone surviving a pain atonement sentence is then free to go with honor restored.
Anyone except the girl James Rowan still needs as a bargaining chip.
Samuel carries me past the first four cells and enters the fifth. The door to the sixth cell is closed, its chain looped through a hole above the doorknob and locked down tight.
I guess James Rowan needs someone else as a bargaining chip, too.
“Who’s there?” I wave weakly at the room beside us and instantly regret it as pain flares along my shoulder blades and throbs viciously.
“I don’t know,” Samuel says as he gently sets me on a narrow bunk that is attached to the far wall. The mattress is thin but clean, and a thick blanket rests at the foot of the bed.
“James Rowan might whip his people half to death, but never let it be said that he makes his prisoners go cold.” My voice cracks, and I hiss in a breath as I try to straighten my back. It’s impossible to find a comfortable sitting position.
Samuel puts a hand on my arm to stop my movements. “Wait until I get your wounds cleaned up.”
I stare at him. “You’re going to clean the wounds you inflicted?”
“Would you rather it have been Ian?” He turns away without waiting for an answer and leaves my cell for a moment. I take the opportunity to look around me. The room is small, almost half the size of Oliver’s tent in Lower Market, and mostly bare. Beside the bed I’m sitting on, there’s a wooden bucket in the corner for me to relieve myself in and a pair of iron rings embedded into the wall behind the bed. Since the wall behind me is part of the original room and is therefore the only side of the cell not made from flimsy wooden slats, I’m guessing those rings are used to secure the chains of unruly prisoners.
I wouldn’t be surprised to see Samuel return with a pair of chains for me, but instead he steps back into the cell with a piece of fabric and a small metal box in his hands.
“Can you lie on your stomach?” he asks.
I slowly lower myself to the bunk, pressing my lips together to keep from crying out as my every movement reopens the slashes across my back, sending burning pain cascading down my nerves until tears clog my throat. Samuel’s hands are careful but firm as he cleans the wounds, covers them with a salve that instantly takes away half of the pain, and then puts bandages into place.
“You need to move every few hours, even though it hurts,” he says. “Make yourself get up and walk. It will feel like the worst thing you’ve ever done to yourself, but it will help you heal much faster.”
I scrub my palms over my face, erasing the last of my tears, and slowly sit up. The salve helps, but it still feels like my back is coated in fire whenever I move. Once I’m sitting, clutching my ruined tunic to me, I meet Samuel’s eyes. His expression is calm and distant, as if he hadn’t just whipped me and then gently tended my wounds.
“Why are you helping me?” This time, I’m not asking because I’m hoping he’ll become my ally. I’m asking because I can’t understand a man like Samuel obeying James Rowan without question.
Or maybe taking care of my wounds was Samuel’s small way of rebelling against his leader. Of keeping his own humanity intact.
If so, I wish he’d found a way to rebel when it really counted—before Ian burned down my city and started killing off my friends.
Samuel sets the first aid box down and picks up the piece of fabric. He unfolds it, and I see that it’s a tunic sewn from rough, unbleached cotton. He offers it to me, and turns his back in an unspoken acknowledgment that even though it will hurt to pull a new tunic over my head, I absolutely refuse to allow him to help me get dressed.
“I’m done,” I say, and he turns back to face me, his expression as impassive as ever. “Are you going to tell me why you’re helping me?”
“It’s over now. You’ve faced your punishment. You survived. There’s no need to prolong the pain.” A muscle in his jaw flexes. “If you were my daughter, I’d want someone to take care of you.” He crouches and picks up my ruined tunic and then meets my eyes. “It’s over, Rachel. Wait it out. Move often enough to heal well. And once the controller is returned, you’ll be free to leave.”
“You really believe that.” I don’t know whether to laugh at his blind faith in his leader or cry for a man who has goodness in him but fails to stand up for others when it really matters.
The creases at the corners of his eyes tighten. “I believe it because it’s true.”
He moves as if to stand, and I lean forward, gasping when pain shoots across my back, and grab his hand. He stares at my hand, white and smudged with blood against his dark skin, and I say, “It’s not true, Samuel. I’m dead, and you helped kill me. Just like you helped kill thousands of people in my city. Just like you helped poison my best friend and slit the throats of children and light white phosphorous fires that killed or disfigured innocent—”
“Stop.” He pulls his hand away from mine and stands.
“On the first night of our trip from Lankenshire, I went to sleep beside you at the campfire once Heidi took over the watch. How then did I end up in the wagon with a bruise on my face?” I ask.
“You decided to sleep in the wagon.” He takes a step toward the door.
“And I just happened to punch myself in the face first?”
He stops.
“I got up and sneaked away from camp while you were sleeping—”
“Heidi had the watch. She’d never allow you to get more than five steps.”
“Heidi and Ian were busy talking on our first night of camp. She left her post so that they could talk without being overheard. Since part of their conversation included how fast they could get away with killing me once your back was turned, I’m pretty sure the person they were trying to keep their conversation from was you.”
He frowns. “And you just happened to overhear them?”
“Of course not. I told you, I sneaked away from camp. I had every intention of trying to escape through the Wasteland, but I figured anything Ian and Heidi didn’t want you to overhear was important enough to risk getting close enough to listen. Ian caught me and punched me in the face, but not before I was able to eavesdrop for a few minutes.”
“You could be lying.” He watches me carefully.
“I could, but what would be the point?”
“Because you think you can somehow convince me to help you escape before James is ready to let you go.”
I shake my head. “Don’t you get it? No one is letting me go. Ian was convinced that James had given him permission to kill me once I was no longer needed as bait. Heidi agreed with him. They also discussed the fact that Ian and his father had recently finished inventing tech that could wipe out Logan and anyone with him before Logan ever has a chance to set foot inside Rowansmark and return the controller.”
Samuel’s eyes narrow, but he says nothing.
I lean forward, ignoring the way the movement pulls at the scabs forming across my back. “You’re an honorable man, Samuel. I don’t know how you convinced yourself it was okay to stand by while Ian hurt so many people, but you did. It hurt you to see Ian break. It hurt you to see the cost of something that started nineteen years ago when James Rowan and the Commander got in a contest to see which of them could be the most powerful man in the land.”
“You don’t know anything about how I feel.” He’s working hard to
wear his distant, cold expression again, but there are cracks of doubt at the edges now.
“I know you’re more than a man who simply does his duty. You have a conscience. If you didn’t, Ian and Heidi wouldn’t have had to hide from you the fact that I was dead as soon as they captured me. You wouldn’t have protected me to keep Ian from destroying more of himself. You wouldn’t have taken the whip tonight to spare both Ian and me and then treated my wounds.”
He doesn’t say anything, but the doubts are growing in his eyes.
“You try hard to be a man of honor. Tell me, where is the honor in keeping me alive as bait and then killing me? In promising Logan that if he returns the controller, I’ll be returned to him alive, only to already have a plan in place that will kill him before he can make right something he didn’t start in the first place? Examine the facts, Samuel, and then look me in the eye and explain to me how any of that is honorable.”
“Why keep you as bait if he already has tech that can destroy Logan?” Samuel asks, his tone impatient.
“You tell me. You know your leader. Is he the kind of man who likes to have contingency plans in case something goes wrong?”
His lips sink into a thin, hard line, and he turns on his heel and leaves the cell, closing the door and fastening the chain behind him. I listen to his footsteps stalk across the dungeon floor and then pound the stairs that lead back up to the main level of the mansion.
Maybe he’ll think about what I said. Maybe he’ll start asking the right questions. And maybe the next time it matters, he’ll choose doing the right thing over doing his duty.
Or maybe he won’t, and it’s going to be just Quinn and me against the entire might of Rowansmark as we fight to disable the tech before Logan arrives.
Of course, for it to be Quinn and me against Rowansmark, I have to get out of this cell.
I sit on the edge of the bunk, my hands gripping my knees, while I concentrate on breathing past the pain in my back. Even with Samuel’s first aid, the pain is a constant, vicious ache that spreads from the top of my scalp to the backs of my knees. I can’t escape this dungeon if I can’t even bear to draw a full breath. And staying locked up at the questionable mercy of James Rowan isn’t part of the plan.